


Broken Things and Seaside Remedies

by Farawayland



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27718534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farawayland/pseuds/Farawayland
Summary: If there was one thing Emma had learned, it was that falling didn't mean you broke forever, it just meant you had the opportunity to scrape up all the jagged pieces and move on. That's what she did, that's what she'd always done, but it turned out there was something she didn't know about falling, and that was that sometimes, if you landed in exactly the right place, it could put your broken pieces back together.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	Broken Things and Seaside Remedies

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on a prompt, and was absolutely meant to be a one-shot. I had every intention of this being a one-shot, and then every time I edited, it got longer, it developed feelings, and needs, and wants. It made promises and plans for the future. Needless to say, this is NOT going to be a one-shot. I'm sorry. I tried. I really did, but then I gave up because it was just easier than battling my impulsive need to add-more-stuff. 
> 
> Prompt: She broke the surface just in time to receive the hard smack of a wave to the side of her face. Her mouth, already open to release the pressure inside her lungs, filled with salty water, and she choked, her head going under again.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

Not for the first time, but maybe for the last time, Emma cursed her stupidity.

It was usually something she did under her breath, a one-word expletive that would betray the self-doubt that plagued her if someone were to overhear.

She’d done it on a dark street when she was seventeen with her hands in the air, and again a few weeks later when those two pink lines appeared. There were plenty more—after two years of shattered hopes when she finally left Tallahassee in the rearview, and anytime she found herself thinking a one-night thing could maybe be something more if she just _tried_.

It was fair to say cursing her own stupidity was a familiar pastime. This time though, there was no one around to catch her in the moment of weakness—which was half the problem, if she was being honest with herself—so she didn’t mind really putting some feeling into it.

“Fuck!” she screamed, forcing out all of the frustration and regret, only to have it blown back against her face by a strong gust of wind. “What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

Emma hadn’t been thinking—half the problem, since she was being honest with herself—but this was the first time that not thinking had led to such a precarious place, literally.

She forced herself to flex the fingers of her right hand, one at a time, carefully releasing the protruding lip of stone she clung to, pain blossoming as she moved her joints in a futile attempt to regain some feeling.

Rinse and repeat with the left.

She wasn’t dumb enough to try stretching her cramped legs—again—remembering how she’d lost her footing and slipped another five feet down, the top of the rocky bluff now a hopeless distance above her.

Her cell was god knows where. It had probably fallen out of her pocket somewhere in the woods, completely useless to her now—not that it mattered, there was no one who would be calling to look for her. The only certainty she had was that her payday was long gone—probably well on his way to Canada.

If there was any karma in the world, he’d get picked off by a hungry bear.

Maine had bears, she thought. Canada definitely did.

Fuck, her arms hurt. Every muscle in her body was taut and screaming. It was a simple fact that she wasn’t going to be able to hold onto the near vertical slope much longer. She forced her eyes open and glanced over her shoulder and down—really far down.

The slope below her dropped another ten feet or so before disappearing, leaving nothing but a clear view of the grey water swirling menacingly below—October was no time for a dip in the Atlantic—but at least it looked free of rocks from up here.

She tried not to think of the titanic.

While she was busy _not_ thinking about underwater icebergs that could tear a ship apart, she also avoided thinking about what it would feel like to hit the ocean from twenty or thirty feet up.

Or what would happen if she hit a rock.

Fuck.

It was going to be one or the other, because right now—if she was being honest with herself, and she was—down was the only option. American Ninja Warrior she was not, and the amount of time she could hold on was running out. It seemed smart to drop while she still had some strength left for swimming, if any version of this could be called smart.

Another gust of wind ripped by and she made her choice. Just turn and push off. Hopefully, she’d clear the ledge below and hit open water, then she could swim to the stretch of shore she’d seen as she tumbled over the edge.

She could do it. People did this on TV all the time.

Gulping in a deep breath, she twisted, trying to maintain her footing enough that she could shove off the rock, but it turned out this stuff looked way easier in movies, and that in real life gravity was a bitch. 

Gravel shifted and she lost any chance of getting momentum. A grunt was forced from her lungs as her side clipped the stony edge on her way down, then there was nothing but air and that sick weightlessness before she hit the water.

If she’d been able to think coherently, she would have cursed her stupidity—not for the first time—for thinking that water from twenty feet up would feel like anything other than concrete, but she wasn’t thinking.

The air had been knocked from her body with the force of a truck, replaced with pain—the pain of falling onto a pile of knives as the sea closed over her.

Freezing was the wrong word. The water was so cold it stabbed and burned, and she was only just lucid enough to remember not to open her mouth and scream. Her lungs threatened to burst and she kicked her legs violently, pain exploding in her side as she struggled toward the lingering brightness that she was pretty sure was _up_.

She broke the surface just in time to receive the hard smack of a wave to the side of her face. Her mouth, already open to release the pressure inside her lungs, filled with salty water, and she choked, her head going under again.

It was a nightmare on repeat, except instead of waking up, she could feel herself sinking deeper into sleep.

Each kick she made was slower, weaker, her head barely clearing the surface as she struggled for just one more breath. Her legs felt like lead weights, and then like nothing. _Up_ was so far, but it was hard to care because it was dark and quiet and she couldn’t feel anything to kick anyways.

Just as she was about to sink into that blissful nothingness, something latched onto her and yanked, the pain distant as she was dragged from the icy water.

* * *

Killian had been about to turn around, his last trap baited and dropped, when he heard it. He froze, his brow creasing as he cast his eyes across the peaceful sea, but there was no sign of another boat, of another person.

His brain told him he was hearing things—it wouldn’t be the first time—but his gut told him something else. You didn’t just imagine hearing someone yell _fuck_ , at least he didn’t, and people didn’t just yell such things for no reason. It was strange though, because this was a remote drag of the coast and, honestly, there wasn’t another boat in sight.

Wiping the hair plastered across his eyes aside, he looked back toward land and finally caught movement. There was a flash of something gold on the rocks as the wind blew, and something red.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, almost not believing what his eyes were telling him.

The bait bag fell from his hand and he rushed to get moving and turn the boat. His heart thumped wildly in his chest as the engine sputtered to life, and he urged the boat forward, faster and quicker than she would normally allow, but he was far—perhaps too far—and he knew that the waters beneath those cliffs were dangerous, riddled with underwater outcroppings of rock only visible at low tide.

Time seemed to slow despite the rush of the wind as his boat powered through the waves, his heart dropping and a curse tearing from his mouth as he watched the woman—he could see flashes of long, blonde hair whipping—pitch into the sea below. He was already moving at top speed, and there was nothing he could do except search the waves for a sign of her breaking the surface. He kept his eyes trained carefully on the spot she’d fallen and pulled closer, praying to any gods listening that he wouldn’t catch a rock. He was unable to see them beneath the murky water, but was unwilling to simply leave the woman out of worry over himself.

His eyes caught movement and he cried out as he saw a face break the surface, her mouth open and gasping as another low wave rocked over her, sending her back down. He adjusted course quickly, needing to bring the boat closer to reach her. Again, she surfaced, her arms clawing toward air as she managed a small breath before sinking back under. The wake from his boat wasn’t helping, and as he watched the water slip by him, he picked out the shadow of a rocky ridge to his right. She’d been lucky, though perhaps not so lucky as to be rescued by someone who kept bloody safety equipment aboard.

He never thought he’d have to worry about someone else…

He let the engine stall and rushed to the side as the boat drifted to where he’d last seen her struggling, but as he peered hopefully into the frigid gloom, nothing looked back. Despite the adrenaline rushing through his body, he could have sworn his heart stopped, only starting again when he caught a flash of red. He leaned—nearly threw himself—over the rail, his hand shooting into the icy waves where he’d caught a glimpse of her, his fingers wrapping tightly in her hair and pulling, but the drag was nearly impossible. He couldn’t get her like this. Knowing he was tempting fate—and wouldn’t it be cruel, for her to finally give in now—he let go of his grip on the boat and leaned further, his left hand joining the other as he struggled against the sea. His fingers scrambled and found purchase in something, perhaps a jacket. He yanked upwards, ignoring the pain shooting up his arm as he fought to keep his grip from loosening, hauling her out of the waves and over the rail of his boat with every last ounce of his strength.

Pushing aside his own exhaustion and the crippling pain in his left arm, he rolled her onto her side and watched as seawater ran out of her nose and mouth. Her skin was pale and tinted blue, her eyes closed and her chest completely still.

“Come on, love,” Killian pleaded, leaning down to try and catch if there was even the faintest breath, but there was nothing.

He pinched her nose and covered her icy lips with his own, breathing into her once, twice—five breaths, watching her chest rise as her lungs filled, but she didn’t stir. Dread settled in his gut as he crossed his hands over her chest and began compressions, blood filling his mouth as he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, the pain in his arm and hand doubling as he put his weight into her chest. His mouth covered hers again, desperate to wake her, to bring her back. There was no one to call, the radio on his boat long broken, and he’d never regretted his disregard as much as in this moment. 

Suddenly there was a rush of fluid against his mouth and he pulled away quickly, turning her body to the side as she started vomiting up seawater beneath him.

“That’s it, lass,” he encouraged, letting out a trembling breath as she sputtered and gasped for air before dropping back to the deck, still hovering somewhere beyond wakefulness.

It took only that brief moment of consciousness for the shivering to start, small quivers at her fingertips growing to violent body-wide tremors that made her teeth clatter and her legs pull inward toward her belly.

He yanked his oil jacket off and draped it over her, struggling with what needed to be done next. She was hypothermic, and she may very well die if he didn’t get her out of her wet things and warmed, but if he didn’t get the boat started and get them out of here, it would only be a matter of time before the waves rocked them into one of the deadly rocks that littered the coastline. Splitting the decision, he yanked off his outermost sweatshirt and stretched it across the deck, picking her up quickly and laying her on top of it, still huddled beneath the warmth of his jacket. It would do little good with her clothing still freezing her to the bone, but he needed to get them both to safety.

As he starts the engine, he’s sure he’s never prayed so much in his life, but the universe must have been on his side, because the finicky boat jumped to life. His prayers don’t stop as they move off the cliffs, but he manages to get them out with no incident, and the voyage home passes like the god of the sea himself is pushing them on—the lass must have someone watching over her, because he’s never had less trouble with his boat since he purchased the bloody thing. 

The seconds it takes to slow her down and drift into the dock feels like an eternity, and he ties off quickly and returns to the woman he plucked from the sea, ignoring the pain as he lifts her and rushes up the path towards his cabin. He can feel her shaking against him, and he’s grateful because it means she still has a chance, that she hasn’t slipped away.

He throws himself against the warped front door and barrels into the cabin, swallowing his relief at the warmth. He’ll have to radio in for her, but it can wait until he gets her out of her wet clothes and warmed. He steps easily out of his over-large boots and carries her to the rug nearest the woodstove, stretching her out and peeling off the sopping layers of clothing. A leather jacket and long-sleeved thermal, then her jeans—almost impossible to slide off her skin, skin that’s barely warmer than when he pulled her from the waves—and he moves faster, cognizant of her shallow breathing and shuttered eyes. She’s most certainly hypothermic.

God, it’s been so long since he’s had this much depending on him.

When he finally manages to tug her boots and jeans off, he snatches a quilt from the sofa and wraps it around her limp form, leaving her in the warmth radiating from the stove. The light from the fire casts her cheeks with a sunny glow, making her look more alive than he fears she may be.

He glances toward the two-way, but decides it can wait. She needs more warmth than the quilt, and he rushes off to the bedroom, returning with some of his own items—a warm pair of flannel pants and an oversized thermal. Removing her wet things has certainly lifted some of the pall about her, and when he peels back the blanket, he can see that her lips are less blue, though her body is still trembling from bone-deep cold.

For the first time he really looks at her, swallowing roughly. He knows he should remove her underthings—the black bra trimmed with lace and matching panties—and tries to remind himself it isn’t an abuse of her state, and she hopefully won’t see it that way once she wakes. The garments are soaked, and though they don’t cover much, she won’t warm with them against her skin. Knowing that doesn’t stop the pang in his gut as he carefully slips the straps from her shoulders and unclasps the back, exposing her breasts before he quickly yanks the shirt over her wet hair and down, restoring her modesty. He takes a moment to squeeze the water from her long tresses and wraps the quilt around her torso before shimmying her panties down. He keeps his eyes steadily focused on the far wall, but he can feel her damp curls brush against his fingers as he lowers the hem, and god help him he’s praying again, and he’s not even sure what for. He fumbles the scrap of lace over her feet and replaces it with the soft, warmth of his pajama bottoms, the task not made any simpler by his steadfast refusal to look at what he’s doing, but at least he can sleep knowing he refrained from taking advantage of her unconscious state by ogling her. 

Once she’s completely dry and wrapped in blankets by the fire, her breathing steadies and her skin begins to truly warm, color flushing her cheeks once again. He feels comfortable leaving her side for a moment and gathers her wet things, laying them across chairs near the stove so they’ll dry. He searches the pockets, but finds no form of identification to provide the police with. Now that she seems a safe distance from harm, he allows himself the first chance to puzzle over what in the hell she was doing on the cliffs by herself. She certainly hadn’t been dressed for hiking in this weather. 

He checks to make sure she is still peaceful and well before he crosses the cabin and leans down in front of the two-way radio. He switches on the transmitter and picks up the handheld, speaking clearly.

“This is Captain to SBPD, do you read me?”

He moves the radio back to receive and listens to the white noise, waiting for a response. Another glance toward the rug, but his words don’t seem to have pulled her from her exhaustion. After a full minute of nothing he hits the switch and repeats his call, but there’s no acknowledgement from the other side. He checks the frequency, making a few adjustments and trying once more.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, switching back and dropping the handheld on the table. Of course, this would be one of those times the two-way was buggered.

A slow groan escapes from the pile of blankets on the floor and he rushes to her side. He’ll fiddle with blasted thing when she’s in a better state. Lowering himself to the rug beside her, he feels her brow with the back of his hand, happy that she’s returning to a normal, human temperature. He carefully lifts the blanket from her feet and checks her toes. They’re colder than the rest of her and he wraps his large hands around them, trying to impart some warmth.

It’s then that he realizes the rush of adrenaline is fading, the freezing cold of his sweatshirt sinking into his skin alongside the steady, lancing pain that shoots up his arm. He tucks the blanket back around her bare feet and stands up, shedding his layers as he stumbles into the bedroom in search of something warmer for himself.

For the next hour, the woman alternates between silence and noises of discomfort, though she seems put at ease when he whispers wordless things beside her. Once she settles into a truly peaceful sleep, he pulls back the blankets so she doesn’t overheat and pours himself a glass of rum, nursing it at her side. It barely takes the edge off the pain still twisting in his hand, but he doesn’t dare to drink more.

He knows he should go see to the boat and the things he left off when he spotted her, but can’t bring himself to go. The image of her tumbling form the cliff into the water below replays in his mind, and he thinks again that she must be owed something by the universe to have avoided hitting any of the rocks. He hadn’t noticed any obvious damage when he stripped her of her wet clothing, but he also knows it may take some time for deep bruises to come to the surface. If she were to wake and panic while he was gone, he’d never forgive himself for putting her through more undue stress. So instead, he rests his back against the sofa and studies her face as she sleeps. Her hair is drying into a beautiful, tangled halo of gold around a face framed by high cheeks and beautiful bow-shaped lips. Her eyes were green, he recalls, seeing them flash in his memory.

She snuggles against his legs in her sleep, perhaps looking for more warmth, and he carefully tucks the blanket around her shoulders once more, his chest tightening as she releases a soft exhale against his knuckles.

Unbidden, his thoughts lurch back through the years, to another time, another place, another woman who breathed a sigh against his skin, only to turn and disappear from his life. His hand tightens around the glass and he pushes the memories away. Memories of her often led to memories of Liam, all of them wrapped up in his failings.

Failings that could have nearly cost someone else their life, he thinks, his eyes settling on the woman sleeping against his leg. The vision of her gasping at the surface, breaking the waves only to be pulled back down, it may very well haunt him the rest of his days. He should have had a working radio on the boat, a buoy to throw to her. He should have been anyone else, not half a cripple who could barely pull her out of the water.

He took another drag of the rum and silently begged that it would wash away more than just the chill from his bones, his eyes so caught in the fire as it burned that he didn’t notice her hand reach out and brush his, her fingertips wrapping contentedly around his own, somehow stilling the ache that never left them.


End file.
